


Leverage

by lttledcve, spinncr



Series: Jaime, First of His Name [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, cersei is playing hardball but sansa's coming for the lannisters honestly, king jaime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 08:46:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15215432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lttledcve/pseuds/lttledcve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinncr/pseuds/spinncr
Summary: Four days into her rule as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa Lannister is having trouble with the in-laws.For the prompt from Fallesto on Tumblr: “You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” Kevan Lannister





	Leverage

Cersei’s robes sway across the floor and into the hall beyond, the lingering impression of her triumphant grin filling the empty spaces between the Lannister men. Jaime’s jaw is clenched, Tywin’s lips pursed, and Kevan’s eyebrows raised.

“You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you?“ Kevan finally asks his brother, bewildered.

“She’s more than done her penance, Kevan. I agree with her. She is in a unique position to restore her good name. She has brought together the Lannister and Baratheon lines, born Stannis two heirs, subverted the threat of a Baratheon claim to the throne—”

_Cersei_ **_is_ ** _the Baratheon threat now,”_ Jaime thinks. His father has already granted Cersei’s request, though he has no authority to do so. Jaime is King, therefore Jaime has the final say.

Cersei has suggested that she be made lady’s maid to the new Queen. Tywin thinks it is the best way for her to reclaim her reputation, after fifteen years of family-imposed exile to Storm’s End. Kevan thinks the idea is ill-fated at best.

Jaime doesn’t know what to think.

He wants to believe his sister has changed. He wants her _near._ It’s been years, after all, and no matter what their past, he does love her. Not the way he thinks he could come to love Sansa, the way he is suspecting he perhaps already _does_ love Sansa, but Cersei is his twin.

He also knows what she is capable of.

Jaw clenched, fingers tapping restlessly, Jaime eyes his father, the hand of the king. “You are not king, Father. You cannot grant her request. You’d do well to remember that. I need to think,” he finally says, and dismisses his father and uncle with a wave of his hand.

_You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you?_

It’s been seventeen years since Jaime was crowned King by conquest, and Jaime is certain he’s never once had a clue what he was doing. Sansa won’t like the idea, he knows, though she’s bested Cersei consistently since she’s arrived. There is merit in keeping Cersei close, if only in being able to better monitor her. Seeing her with Stannis had raised a strange amalgamation of feelings in him, part jealousy, and part suspicion. Stannis had sworn his allegiance to Jaime upon his marriage to Cersei, but Jaime has never bought it. He’d rather have the devil in his home, than the Seven knew where.

Still, he and Sansa are still adjusting to married life together, and he doesn’t like the idea of upsetting his new bride so early in their marriage. He has to talk to Sansa.

 

 

It’s different, wandering the halls of the Red Keep as its Queen, rather than merely the King’s betrothed. In the years that she’s lived in the Capital, the friendships she has made, many seem almost hesitant to keep the familiarity with her now. The only difference, Sansa can think of, is that somehow just being promised to the King was not quite the same thing as being _married_ to him. The distinction seems ridiculous, and yet there’s only two people who don’t seem to be bothered by the change.

Margaery Tyrell is all manners, but has remained one of her truest friends when the pair are alone. It’s hard to find someone who will tell her what they mean these days, and while Margaery’s words are always pretty, the Lady has never had a problem sharing her mind when pressed.

Cersei Baratheon looks down her nose to look at her, and goes out of her way to make sure she can address Sansa as anything but her title, or acknowledge that she has married her brother apart from the newest term of endearment she has so kindly bestowed.

Sansa is positive that if she hears the words ‘ _sweet sister_ ’ drip from Cersei’s lips like poison one more time she’s going to lose her patience.

Both Ser Kevan and the Lord Hand bow in quick greeting to her as they exit the small council room, but she doesn’t stick around for polite conversation. “My Lord, Ser,” she returns in quick greeting, but leaves it that with a small smile, as she pushes the door open into the very room they have just left vacated.

“I had a feeling I would find you here, Your Grace.” The nomenclature is unnecessary, so she’s told, but Sansa can’t help her small smile as she crosses the room towards him. It’s no secret that he has been holed up in here with not only his father and uncle, but his sister as well. And while a part of her dreads what is potentially being plotted within the room – simply because she does not trust her ‘sweet sister’ – she has other plans.

Considering the tension in her husband’s shoulders, they seem more pressing.

“Could I pry you away for a bit?” She doesn’t ask if her timing is poor, in her own opinion her timing seems more than perfect.

****  

 

He can’t decide whether he’s pleased or resigned that Sansa enters the room so swiftly after his family—the _rest_ of his family—has exited. It’s not that he doesn’t want to face her just yet, just that… perhaps he’d’ve liked more time before he had to face her.

“I’m sorry you weren’t invited to the meeting. It was an oversight that shall not happen again,” he vows as she crosses the room to him. An oversight orchestrated by Tywin, he is sure. His father has yet to acknowledge that there is more to Sansa than her pretty red hair, and talent with a needle.

He sighs, recalling the times when Sansa was younger that he would whisk her away on day trips to the beach, picnics in the orchards outside the capital. Silly faux-courtships games that he thought a child would enjoy. He’d been right, only he’d enjoyed them, too. Things are much more complicated now that Sansa is a woman, his wife, no less, and incredibly astute in her own right.

“Not today, I fear,” he answers, twining their fingers together, though he doesn’t meet her gaze just yet. “My father has decided that Cersei should be a lady’s maid,” Jaime says bluntly. “One of the Queen’s ladies, to be specific.” Even just saying it aloud, Jaime can hear how ridiculous it sounds. The Cersei of his youth would never be content to serve a queen, wouldn’t be content until she _was_ Queen. But he can only hope that his twin has grown as much as he has these last decades. He doesn’t know Cersei anymore. He despises being judged for the mistakes of his youth, that blasted _Kingslayer_ title still whispered behind his back throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Can he truly judge his sister for her own misguided youth?

“I don’t know what to do.”

****

 

“I was busy,” Sansa speaks quickly, if only to reassure him that she is not offended. “Besides, you are king, Jaime. Your schedule need not be dictated by _mine._ ” She knows her husband values her input, it’s more than she was taught to expect, but he cannot delay every decision to be made simply because a meeting was called when she was not available. She appreciates it, likely even loves him for it, but the urge to let him know that she both understands his position and supports his decisions is strong.

Although judging by the look he has etched into his features, he’s about to tell her something that he isn’t sure she will either agree with or support.

It would be so easy to sneak away, a picnic could be whipped together at a moment’s notice, and getting out of the Keep would be like a breath of fresh air. Something in the air has made everything feel as if the walls were shrinking, suffocating, and Sansa longs for a change. And with the summer heat, her mind flashes back to the waters he had shown her before she had begun to learn what it was like to swim in the waves.

Her hand closes around his, a small measure of comfort, before she swallows a snort. It’s not appropriate for her station even in their privacy, and all humor is quickly forgotten. Just as soon as she had been about to ask Jaime which Lady had been lucky enough to draw their sister as their lady’s maid, he had announced that it was she herself who had drawn the lucky straw.

Sansa feels stunned, her blue eyes widening before her mouth promptly shuts and she sucks on her tongue. “I see.”

She doesn’t see, because surely everyone else must understand the great jape of making Cersei Baratheon _her_ lady’s maid. The Lady can’t even address her properly, is disrespectful not only to the King but most of those she considers **beneath** her, which doesn’t leave much of the population of Court deserving of her respect. And then there’s the fact that she is her husband’s _former lover_.

Alleged former lover, depending on who is gossiping.

“The Lord Hand makes many decisions for someone who is not King,” she comments off handedly, her thumb softly stroking the back of his hand as she watches him curiously. She swallows the rest of her comments – they’re nothing that will help either of them – but there’s a certain sting that now Tywin Lannister is overstepping so much as to take away her own decisions as to who she will keep close, and who will remain in the Queen’s confidence.

She’s not sure what to tell him either- because if the choice was left to her Cersei Baratheon would most certainly **not** become one of her lady’s maids. But something clearly must be weighing on his mind if he has not shot down the idea immediately, or deferred the decision to her. “What about it gives you grief?”

 

 

Jaime huffs. “And _you_ are queen, Sansa. Or have you forgotten already?” he teases halfheartedly. It is not in her nature to exploit her new station, and for the life of him, Jaime cannot figure out why. It isn’t as though he’d begrudge her the power her position grants her. He is not, after all, Aerys.

It’s fitting, in an utterly cruel way, that the next moment proves to them both how little power they have in some situations. Sansa’s face is blown wide with shock, only to quickly shutter herself away behind the mask of politesse he had last seen directed at his twin. It stings, but he cannot deny earning it.

“So he does,” he murmurs, considering. It’s weighed upon Jaime more and more, the insolence with which his father usurps him time and time again. He had sworn to himself he would not be Aerys, and turn on his own family in suspicion, but perhaps he’s erred too far on the side of caution. After all, it’s not as though the Lannisters are known for their stalwart honor.

What about the decision gives him grief? What _doesn’t?_ He supposes that he deserves Sansa’s lack of faith is his own affection for her, they’ve not yet been married a week, but still they have been friends for more than two years now. He would’ve hoped she trusted him more than that. Then, of course, there’s his sister, his twin, and the request that hides a scheme, he is sure. Perhaps simply to crawl into his bed, which he has no intention of allowing. But he does miss her, her biting wit and fierce loyalty. It is true he misses the feel of her beneath his fingers, but that ache is not enough to press him into breaking his vows to his wife, nor the promise he made her in the gardens of the Red Keep.

Silence stretches between them and he turns his hand over to hold her fingers in his palm. They are soft and lean, but he spies the barest hint of a callous on her thumb from one too many pricks of a needle. The imperfection grounds him. “She’s planning something, I know it. I don’t want her hurting you.” And he knows the Cersei of his youth was more than capable of it. “But I’m no longer sure that keeping her hidden away at Storm’s End is beneficial to us. I’d rather have her in my home, under my watch, under _your_ watch—” For they both know in her years at the Keep, she’s become far more insightful than her husband. “—than allow her to continue her plots unchecked.” He sighs, frustrated with himself.

“I’m aggrieved that allowing her to stay feeds into my father’s beliefs that he wields the authority of the crown, that I’m but a piece on his gameboard. I dislike him using me so, and thinking he can do such with impunity. I dislike hurting you with my sister’s proximity, and…” He finally looks up to meet Sansa’s gaze, knowing his words will hurt her as he has just claimed disliking to do. “I do miss her. She is my twin, and I love her.” The words are whispered like the darkest of confessions. He explained before that the love he once held for Cersei has since changed, but he doesn’t restate the sentiment. He has no intentions of breaking his marriage vows, let alone with his sister of all people, but there is inherent risk in what he is suggesting, and it doesn’t sit well with him.

He broke a sacred oath once, and it won him a throne. What would a second disavowal cost him?

 

 

She doesn’t like any of it, and for a brief moment Sansa is sure that it is written clearly across her face. But she has not forgotten her new position, as much as Jaime likes to tease and jest, and she knows that she’s required to rise above it and not sulk in the way she very much feels like doing. She is the Queen, and even if the words still feel funny in her mouth, he is asking for her help.

It no longer matters that she had been looking forward to the day that the Baratheon family would return to Storm’s End, or that Cersei Baratheon _exhausts_ her. There’s a small amount of amusement in the battle of wits that she is constantly engaged in when the blonde lady makes her appearance, but with every flash in her good-sister’s eyes, Sansa wonders exactly how much longer until her small battle of wills turns into something much larger, and much more tedious. Dangerous.

Jaime is torn – that much is readily obvious, but Sansa doesn’t hold back her opinion as any sort of punishment. No, there is a purpose to her words, and before she can offer up any kind of solution or idea, she needs to know where it is that her husband stands. What the root of the problem is, beneath the obvious. Their conversation about his sister is still fresh in her mind, and while Sansa had once been willing to stand aside as long as the pair would take care to be discreet, something about the thought makes her chest constrict.

She doesn’t consider whether or not she is _jealous._ It’s a ridiculous question.

“I know.” She’s not the same little fool who had fallen prey to Baelish’s plans, or the same little girl who had stupidly believed that everyone in King’s Landing would be loyal to her simply because she was to marry the King. If Sansa was to venture a guess, she would bet that the Lady Cersei’s plots had been born long before her travels to the Red Keep. But the idea of such a lady becoming her ward, her responsibility, is daunting. Sansa doesn’t trust Cersei, and more than that she doesn’t know how to predict what she’s going to do, and if her gut is right – she isn’t convinced that there is anything Cersei won’t do to get what she wanted.

Whether it’s merely her brother, the Seven Kingdoms, or something else entirely, remains to be seen.

Rather than look away, Sansa watches him silently, even as he tells her the very things she doesn’t want to hear. They’ve always been good at communicating, and if this is to truly work – that needs to continue. Even through this. But she ignores the way his confession affects her, and tries to push the images of the siblings reuniting far from her mind as she focuses on what little she can help with.

She does believe her husband is fond of her – and is happier with his choice more so now than he had been early on in their betrothal, but there is little hope of that fondness growing with the only woman he has ever loved living so close. No, if Cersei is to stay, which it appears is clearly the case, they must address the other issue at hand.

Her good-father.

Sansa hesitates, only for a second, before she takes the seat next to him, leaving his hand firmly in his grasp. He’s asking for her thoughts after all – and something seems to stick out as an obvious advantage. “No one wields higher authority than you, husband. Perhaps there is a way to remind him of that without causing too much animosity.” Although with a man of Tywin Lannister’s pride, she isn’t sure it’s an easy feat – and he won’t be too thrilled with the solution she’s piecing together. “Why not tie it together with a favor. If we are to be subjected to his decision regardless, why not get something you want from him in exchange?”

 

 

He can feel the tension settle between them like decades of dust, and finds he doesn’t like the way it dulls what usually shimmers between them. Sansa deftly sidesteps the issue of Cersei, and Jaime lets it go, because he doesn’t precisely _want_ to talk about his twin. He mostly wants her to be a better woman, one he can keep at his side without fear. It’s a moot desire.

His father is only slightly more palatable a topic and Jaime finds himself wishing fervently for Tyrion. Tyrion, who was also neglected an invite to the Lannister family meeting. Tywin’s distaste for his youngest son always made readily apparent. It had been a battle just for Jaime to get him the position of castellan of Casterly Rock, though Tyrion had quickly shown his father up with how well he ran the castle. Jaime had not been surprised in the slightest, and he’d been dismayed to find that he was the only one.

Tyrion.

_Get something you want from him in exchange._

The idea flares in his mind, and he is positive Tyrion will hate and adore him for it in equal measure, but it is perfect. The only thing he could imagine even remotely wounding Tywin Lannister’s pride, and the only thing he can imagine it would be difficult for Tywin to relinquish.

Lordship over Casterly Rock.

A smile grows over his face and in a fit of delight, he yanks Sansa’s arm so she tumbles into his lap. They aren’t usually so demonstrative with each other. They used to be playful, roughhousing in the waters of Blackwater Bay, or playfully racing their horses, but that had been when Sansa was a child, and such casual touches were not charged with anything beyond friendship.

They’ve been married now four days, and three nights, and Sansa has been in his bed for all of them, but such touches are still new. Regardless, he doesn’t hesitate as he pulls her face to his to kiss her once, twice, three times in quick succession. “You, my Queen, are diabolical.” Tywin would be proud, should he take his head out of his ass and recognize what was right in front of him. Of course, he has yet to do so, and the pleasure of his wife’s ingeniousness is his, and his alone.

 

 

There are those in the Seven Kingdoms who would say that Tywin Lannister was the most powerful man in Westeros. It seems fitting in a way, that in order to get what he wants from the King, he should have to pay some sort of price like many others looking for favor with the King. If her time in King’s Landing has taught her anything, it’s that everything is done with favors – or the appearance of such – and to subject the Hand to the same daily course of business would be a strong statement.

And with the Hand’s nearly unlimited resources, it shouldn’t prove too hard to find something that her husband needs or wants from him. However, Sansa is sure that the more difficult the request is, the better it would be overall. It certainly would at least give Tywin leave to consider what it is he is asking, or demanding, of the King…even if he is his father.

For a moment, Sansa worries that she’s stepped too far. She can’t read Jaime’s silence – but if needed she is ready to defend her idea. If anything, it will swing more heavily in his favor—that the Monarch is strong, and could quell some of the rumors of his father’s power. Sansa opens her mouth, ready to explain herself, but his smile confuses her and before she can interject she’s falling rather ungracefully into his lap.

A small yelp unconsciously falls from her lips as she’s moved from one seat to another – and this one much more private – intimate. Her cheeks redden, despite the fact that they are very much alone, but his attitude is infectious, and she’s smiling despite the impropriety of it all. “What are you-” her question is cut off, quite abruptly, by his lips, and Sansa laughs as her hand rests on his cheek. “ _Your Grace_ ,” she’s cut off again, and Sansa’s laughter grows before she gives in and kisses him back soundly.

“I should hope not,” she teases quickly, but her curiosity is rapidly getting the better of her “You’ve thought of something.” It’s a statement rather than a question, and there’s a swell of pride that begins to balloon in her chest. It’s something good, perhaps even something he’s wanted for a while, judging by the spike in his good humor. “What is it?”

 

 

Her laughter clears away the dust and cobwebs that had settled between them, at least for now, and her cheeks are colored the most delightful shade of rose. It clashes terribly with her hair, but he’ll never tell her. It’s another imperfection that has endeared her to him, his bride, possibly the most genuine woman in all of King’s Landing. With every reminder that she does not try to cover herself with coy paints and false smiles, seductive words to lead him where she wants him to go, Jaime falls more into infatuation with Sansa Stark.

Sansa _Lannister,_ now.

Her hand rests on his cheek, and he turns his face into it, pressing his lips against her palm. He cannot make up for the wedge Cersei will no doubt drive between them, but it seems thus far, it has not struck a killing blow to the affection between them, and for that he is grateful. “Cersei has only ever been denied one thing in her life. What she asks of my father, he has always readily granted,” Jaime explains, his hands settling around Sansa’s waist, pulling her just a smidgen closer.

“Tyrion stopped asking my father for things when he was seven.” Even at such a young age, Tyrion had been clever enough to realize that the gifts Tywin bestowed on him, would only ever be used to humiliate and belittle him. He bore the realization quietly and hadn’t even bothered to mention it to Jaime until Jaime had been crowned, and foolishly unprepared for their father to deny Tyrion what was rightfully his. Casterly Rock. Tywin had maintained lordship, despite being made Hand to the King, and place his brother, Kevan, in charge of his holdings. Jaime eventually got Tywin to grant his youngest son the position of castellan, which he frequently undermined regardless.

_Father does not give me gifts, dear brother, he gives me ego checks. Apparently, he lives under the false impression I have any ego left to check._

“It is time that Tyrion was given what is rightfully his, and what my father surely has no use for anymore. Lordship of Casterly Rock.”


End file.
